


Exercises in futility

by mittagsfrau



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Choking, Figging, Humiliation, M/M, Predicament Bondage, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Torture, anger management issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mittagsfrau/pseuds/mittagsfrau
Summary: Order through pain. Commander Rumlow needs to be disciplined.
Relationships: Alexander Pierce/Brock Rumlow, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 1
Kudos: 31





	Exercises in futility

Brock’s armor is brittle, exposing too much of his sensitive underbelly. He’s quick to laugh, quick to cry and quick to anger. Anger is the most predominant emotion in the boiling maelstrom of Brock’s soul. Right now he’s yelling at Dave from logistics, two inches from that poor dude’s face, his face twisted into a snarl, spittle flying from his lips.

Jack watches. He will interfere if Brock suddenly gets physical. Brock is a time bomb with a short fuse. He barely catches Brock’s arm in time before he knocks the guy’s teeth out of his ass.

“Look at him quaking in his boots. He’s a tiny little shrimp. Hit him and it’s practically murder.”

Jack has to restrain his commander by wrapping his arms around him from behind and holding on in a mockery of an embrace.

“Is he worth losing your job, Brock? Think about it before you do anything rash.”

Brock growls low in his throat, actually growls like an animal and shrugs Jack off his back.  
“Fine.”

It’s all Brock says. With one last withering glare at Dave from the logistics department of SHIELD he storms off, raking his fingers through his hair and slams his office door behind him.  
Of course Dave files a report of the incident and of course SHIELD sends Brock a reprimand via email, that the STRIKE Alpha commander ignores. HYDRA is not that lenient and Brock is called in for yet another ‘attitude adjustment’.  
Jack has to attend, too, like always.

It goes like this:  
Somewhere in the belly of the Triskellion, far underground there’s one room with a sign on the door that reads ‘maintenance’. It’s a heavy steel door, reinforced and soundproof.

Very few people have an access card to the elaborate electronic lock. One of them is Secretary of Defense Alexander Pierce.

The room is spacious and mostly bare. Concrete walls, concrete floors and a ceiling covered in pipes like guts.  
The AC is the only sound right now. There are no windows but there’s a drain in the middle of the floor and things that loosely fall into the category of furniture.

Pierce straddles the only chair backwards. His blazer is hanging from a hook next to the door and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. Jack stands at a parade rest next to him and watches Pierce’s handiwork. He never fails to impress.

“Commander Rumlow”, Pierce breaks the silence, “I’m disappointed.” He says that in the tone of a father, stern but indulgent, like he expected this. Pierce probably did. So did Jack.

Commander Rumlow doesn’t reply. First of all, it’s not his turn to speak. Second, he actually can’t. He’s busy trying to breathe.

Jack almost sighs in pleasure at the display. Pierce is an artist. Taking something so volatile and feral as Brock and turning him into this… Jack has nothing but respect for the head of HYDRA.

Brock’s pretty face is red and puffy, veins and sinew risen starkly under his skin. The rope around his neck is tight, attached neatly to one of the pipes crawling along the ceiling. Jack appreciates the long column of his throat, stretched like this. His Adam’s apple jumps as he swallows, fights to swallow and fails. He’s drooling. Each labored breath forming foam on his lips.

Brock’s hands are tied behind his back, out of sight. But the strain it puts on his shoulders is clearly visible.  
His chest rises and falls with each breath he can barely take. Brock looks like a wood carving of a tortured Saint, his perfectly sculpted body looks even better under stress.  
The play of his abdominal muscles is a sight to behold. The way they part shadows from the light is truly divine.

Jack adores Brock’s feet. He stands on tiptoes on an upright placed piece of firewood. It wobbles, making Brock sway dangerously. The toes of his left foot grip the splintery, rough wood and those of his other foot dig into the spaces between them.

Such pretty feet, so elegant and finely made. Slim ankles and slender, sinewy legs. The fact that they are bowed in an unpleasant way is hidden by their position. Nothing is perfect but everything can be displayed as such.

Brock’s erection, red and swollen looks obscene, out of place on the sculptural look of his body, primitive and animalistic. Jack frowns as he watches fluid bead at the slit and slowly drip to the floor. Men are so much more naked than women could ever be, with their genitalia all out on display and led around by it.

“You’re a hothead, a loose cannon and it’s absolutely unbecoming your position.” Jack nods along with Pierce’s words. Brock makes a wet, gurgling and gasping sound and his eyes well up with tears again.

“You’re not a man”, Pierce continues and gets up, crossing the space between them with a few measured strides. He looks up at Brock’s face, shakes his head and slaps Brock’s leaking dick hard enough to bounce the echo of flesh meeting flesh around the room. Brock’s muffled scream is inconsequential. “You’re an animal in the skin of a man. You’re a mere beast because you can’t bear the weight of humanity, the responsibility of being a man and you can’t play by the rules of man.”

Brock’s eyes roll back in their sockets and he nearly loses his balance before he catches himself.

“I don’t know how many times I have adjusted your behavior. No lesson ever stuck for long. Is your skull that thick or that empty? Are you just a pretty face and a well maintained body or are you a soldier?”

Brock tries to answer but only manages to choke. Pierce sighs long sufferingly. 

“Order through pain. Maybe this time you will learn. Rollins, cut him down.”

Jack steps in front of Brock presses close, grabbing the back of Brock’s thighs under the swell of his buttocks. After over a decade of working together they understand each other without words. Obediently and trustingly Brock lifts his trembling legs and wraps them around Jack’s middle, smearing fluid onto Jack’s tactical vest as he rubs up on him on him. 

Jack reaches up to cut the rope with his combat knife and catches him as he falls before easing him to the ground, helping him to position himself on his knees. Brock coughs and chokes and gags for a while before settling into the appropriate pose – kneeling, thighs splayed, head bowed.  
“I’m sorry”, he rasps after catching his breath, his gravelly voice even rougher than usual. 

“I’m afraid ‘sorry’ won’t cut it, Commander Rumlow”, Pierce interject before Brock can spill meaningless apologies.  
He turns to Jack. “Did you prepare and bring the requested item?”

Jack nods and takes a ziplock bag out of his pocket. Pierce takes it and turns it in his hands, scrutinizing Jack’s offering.  
“Acceptable”, he judges and Jack tries not to show the relief he feels as Pierce opens the plastic bag and takes out what actually is Jack’s forth try at this. 

He puts one foot on Brock’s neck and bends him over until his cheek is pressed to the rough concrete floor. Jack studies the way Brock’s arms are tied behind his back. Elegant rope work forces them together from elbow down. It’s a thing of beauty. Brock’s fingers must be numb by now and curl over his palms like wilted petals of a flower.

Pierce parts Brock’s buttocks, spits at his hole and presses the big piece of ginger Jack carved into the shape of a plug mercilessly in. Brock whimpers like a kicked puppy and tries to evade it by canting his hips down and away. Pierce spanks him like a naughty child until he behaves and takes it with a strangled cry. 

It’s an ancient Greek practice to punish slaves. It burns like hell fire, reaching its crescendo after a few minutes. Then painful becomes nearly unbearable. 

Brock drools, whines and finally squirms like a maggot and starts crying again. Pierce nods to Jack and he complies instantly, cutting the ropes binding Brock’s arms and helping his trembling and sobbing commander on his feet. 

“Wash your face and get dressed. You may take it out when you have finished your paperwork and not a second earlier”, Pierce orders him. 

“Yes, sir”, Brock answers in a shaking voice and picks up his folded clothes in the far corner of the room. Jack watches him walk even more bow legged than usual with detached fascination. Brock puts on his underwear and socks with numb and trembling hands, his shirt and uniform pants and laces his boots tightly. The harness comes last.

There’s still a noticeable bulge at his crotch and Pierce sighs.  
“You’re an absolute disgrace, such a filthy boy. Take care of that before you walk out of the door.”

Brock opens his pants eagerly and reaches inside his boxers.  
“Face the wall, nobody wants to see that”, Pierce barks at him and Brock nearly trips in his haste to comply. 

They watch him and have to listen to him masturbating furiously. Jack gets distracted by the way Brock’s shoulder blades move under the tight fabric of his shirt and the way his muscles play in the back of his upper arms. 

When it’s finally over and Brock comes with a grunt, Pierce makes him lick the wall clean with a hand on Brock’s nape.  
Jack spends the next hours filing reports and watching Brock squirm on his office chair, cheeks flushed and eyes threatening to glaze over as he silently types in his report. 

He can’t wait to go home with Brock and ease the burn with his tongue until his commander is a sobbing mess begging for Jack’s dick. Not that he would actually get it. Jack isn’t into that. If Brock begs prettily enough, Jack will unlock the toy box and let Brock chose something extra filling to ride.

**Author's Note:**

> This somehow fits into the same verse as "Vessels in great Disrepair" but not quite perfectly. There are steps missing I don't want to explore.


End file.
